Nin Chronicles: My Kingdom
by Jaya Avendel
Summary: To be King is to look out upon one's realm with the knowledge that status has no meaning where hearts are concerned. For any father, for any parent, their kingdom's are found in the eyes of their family. Herein lie the tales of those kingdom's; the laughter found in mishaps, the tears in sorrow, and the anger borne of impatience and cruelty. Fifth in the Nin Chronicles.
1. The Shack

_**Author's Note: For clearness' sake, Talion, as you may know, is the young elf who found Legolas at the borders of Mirkwood and brought him to the safety of the palace in Nin Chronicles: My Lord. Hyrondal is the beloved Captain of the Guard. **_

Talion raised his head from his knees and tried to still his shivering as his Captain entered the shack.

"Sir," he said.

Captain Hyrondal folded his arms across his chest and glanced around the small space. Snow blew through the cracks in the boards and the fire fought to give off heat, the flames dancing in the wind.

Talion rested his head on his knees again, his eyes closed. The dread weighing down his stomach told him why Captain Hyrondal was here. He swallowed. He could not go home.

"I beg forgiveness for neglecting to follow orders at the eastern border, sir," he said. "I will be gone tomorrow."

Hyrondal looked down at the wretched, shivering youth and unpinned his cloak. He wrapped the fur-lined folds around Talion. "I am not here to dismiss you. You found a dying elfling at the border, Talion. Under the circumstances, you made a fine decision not to inform your superior due to the essence of time."

Talion's brow dipped. "I was sure I would be dismissed . . ."

"Better things could have been done," Hyrondal acknowledged. "And you will be taught those things in time. But is the elfling not safely in the care of the healers? That is what matters."

He looked around the bleak hovel again. "I see you have lied to me about your home."

Talion flushed and wrapped the cloak tighter to himself. "I feared you would not take me on as an apprentice if you knew my family detested the idea. I had to lie for me—for my sake.

"Becoming part of the forest guard is all I want; I want to save lives. I cannot do that succumbing to the written fate of a calligrapher! I was desperate to grasp my dream when we met the first time."

Hyrondal put out the fire and hefted the young elf to his feet. "So you have sat here hungry and cold and miserable for the past sixteen months? I cannot believe you are still alive!"

Talion choked. "It was not easy, sir, to finish training every day. I ache and it is a long struggle to keep forward—to think of what lies at the end, more so in the cold of winter. I-I sometimes felt you pushed me harder in the fields, when my arms felt like dough and I was so empty, I feared I would faint."

"But you never gave up," Hyrondal said, helping the elf to walk. He came without question, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

"I could not," Talion cried. "This is all I have now! I have no family and no future but this. I have to do it."

Hyrondal pushed open the door to his warm cabin and led Talion inside. He sat the elf at the kitchen table and filled a bowl with soup from the pot singing over the fire. He watched the youth eat. As he grew warm, so did his eyes become wary.

"I did push you harder than my other trainees," Hyrondal admitted, as he sat opposite the youth. "The truth is I do not like your father and seeing how desperate you were to be something other than the fate he spelled out for you only makes me despise him more. I am ashamed I took out my dislike of him on you."

Talion swirled his spoon in the orange confines of his soup and refused to look up. He muttered, "He does not like dreams. Except his own."

"I am talking to you as a friend, not your Captain," Hyrondal said. "You have an incredible amount of potential but, sitting alone in that shack, hungry and cold, it will die, as will your passion. I ask the honor of being your personal mentor as mine was to me."

Finally, the youth looked up. He stuttered, "You—you are most kind . . . but I-I am not special."

"You are. You travelled for days with a sick elfling in your arms. You travelled day and night through frigid cold without a thought for yourself. People with such great hearts are hard to find."

Talion blinked. "I never thought about myself. I-I do not think I was cold—I only heard him coughing and whimpering—and I wished I could go faster. I suppose I never thought about it the way you put it. Sir."

"You are welcome to stay at the barracks," Hyrondal said.

Talion flushed and shook his head. "If I could have, do you not think I would have done so sixteen months ago?"

Hyrondal frowned. "And if you had spoken to me about your current living conditions, I would have been thrilled to waive the fee!"

The youth shriveled at his tone. Hyrondal amended himself by saying, "There is an empty room in this house. It used to be mine when I lived here with my mentor. It could be yours."

"I should be glad to accept you as my mentor, sir," Talion said. He forced out the words. "But I have nothing to give you in return. As I said, I am quite alone now . . . "

Hyrondal raised his eyebrows. "I too had nothing, though perhaps not quite as literally as you, when my mentor took me in. There is no charge for teaching. All I ask is that you learn what I teach you and do not hesitate to disagree, for that is how we learn new things. I ask also, in light of your stubbornness to ask for help, that, if you feel sick or poor, _you tell me_."

Perhaps in his haste to grab the offer before it faded, Talion swore, "I will! I swear!"

Hyrondal sat back. "Good. We do not become strong people by forcing ourselves on through sickness and hunger, you understand. We become strong people by knowing when we need rest. And, yes, there are times when there is no rest to be had. But in those times also, we are prepared."

Talion looked at him desperately. "I mean no disrespect, sir, and would gladly endure the lecture, but, as you said I am to tell you when I do not feel well, I am. I-I am exhausted, and a warm bed would be Valinor to me right now. I—"

Hyrondal allowed himself a smile. "I should hope so. Do not feel weak, Talion, because you need rest. There is a warm bed waiting for you down the hall; first door on the right. And let us be done with the 'sir', shall we? I do not quite like to feel like a master lording over a slave."

"In the field—"

"In the field, certain codes dictate a form of hierarchy," Hyrondal said. "As a personal mentor to his apprentice, however, we shall have none of that. Would you address your father in such a manner?"

Talion coughed. "Mine, yes. He would not hesitate to take me outside and—"

"I do not wish to hear of the barbaric treatment your father imposed upon you," Hyrondal said. "I have seen enough of it for one day in the face of the elfling you saved."

Talion looked away. "My father would not think of going so far. The marks of his switch soon faded."

Hyrondal stood and went around the table to put his hands on the youth's broad shoulders. "Wrap yourself up well, Talion, and do not hesitate to utilize the blankets in the hall cupboard. After being out in the cold so long, the last thing you want is to catch a chill."

Talion stood. He grinned awkwardly. After a stretched-out moment, he said, "Goodnight, s—Hyrondal."

The Captain smiled. "Goodnight, Talion. A word, if you please."

The youth looked at him. Hyrondal said, "Perhaps it is not customary, but I grant you full permission to sleep as long as you need."

Talion bowed. A glint came into his eyes. "One ought not have to grant such things."

Hyrondal chuckled. "Indeed not. You spoke of your dream to save lives, Talion. I assure you; you will live it. Already you have saved a life."

Talion almost felt the skinny elfling in his arms as he walked the hall. He smiled, thinking that the shivering, frail child would be safe and warm in one of Healer Jailil's beds, sure to awaken not to more cold but to hot broth and soft blankets.

And, Talion reflected, as he tugged back the covers of his new resting place, so would he.

* * *

**Did you perhaps enjoy this humble beginning? Do let me know!**


	2. New Eyes

_**A tale from the resplendent youth of our beloved, King Thranduil. **_

Padram's pitchfork hit something in the straw. He frowned as he pitched up the last forkful from the cart and clambered into the small loft. He prodded with the tines before putting the tool aside and kneeling to paw through the hay. He uncovered a small face and pointed ears.

Padram recoiled with a hiss. An elf! He went for his knife but wavered as the elf tried to force his eyes open. A thin hand went to rub his forehead before he curled onto his side with a sigh.

Padram touched him and found him hot. A sick child. He sat back on his heels with a sigh. He hated the tall elves at Mirkwood's border, but he could not hate a child. He slipped the elf from the loft and plunged out of the barn, kicking the door shut behind him.

His wife looked up as he put the body by the hearth. Her dark eyes were inquiring. "It is a sick boy, Lani. I found him in the barn."

"Good grief!" Lani exclaimed, putting the cooking spoon into her daughter's hand and bustling to the boy's side. "We must—" She screamed and retreated to the far wall, hands pressed to her angular cheekbones.

"An elf! How could you? You bring curses into our house! Kill him! Kill him now!"

On the floor, the elf squirmed and tried to rise, his thin limbs refusing to hold him up.

"I cannot kill him, Lani! I would feel as if I murdered one of our own children."

Lani gripped a knife from the table. "I will not help him. I will see him under this roof! His kind are the reason we live in this filthy place, seeing our children go hungry and cold. Take him out and let me die in the cold. Let the elves lose a child for once."

She covered her face with her apron and began to cry. Padram wrapped her in an embrace, aware of the dark eyes of his daughters staring at him from the red glow of the fire.

"Lani, my dear, we have a roof over us and food on the table. Our children are not hungry. We are better off than most. Because the elves make our lives hard does not mean we should leave a child to die."

Lani rested her chin on Padram's shoulders before she wiped her eyes and unclenched the knife. She addressed her daughters. "Bring me cold water and blankets. He will stay on the sofa."

Cally scuttled toward the bedroom door as Padram moved the boy to the narrow sofa. Lani spread a blanket over him and put a damp cloth on his forehead.

"I thought elves were evil," Annella said, hands clasped behind her green dress.

"I do not think they would kill a sick child either," Padram said. "It is true they make our life hard but that is no reason to let hate cloud our horizons."

Annella paused. Cally said from beside her, "I do not think anyone else in the village would agree, da."

Lani drew in a sharp breath as the family gathered around the table. "She is right, you know. If we are found out . . ."

The elf slept until the next dawn. He sat up and opened his eyes to the smell of hot food and the sound of a wooden spoon ladling out breakfast. Lani brought him a steaming bowl, wary as he pressed himself against the wall and spat. She left it beside him and hastily retreated to her seat, glancing at him.

"His fever is gone," she said. "We cannot take him to Mirkwood; we are sure to be shot."

"Perhaps we may leave him at the edge of the forest, and he will find his own way home," Cally said. She looked at the elf as he gulped down his food. "But he did find his way to our barn so perhaps he is lost."

"We cannot keep him!" Lani exclaimed. "You know we are alone in with this compassion. We may as well be dead with him if we are found out. I will not risk our lives for him any longer."

"I will go to Mirkwood's borders," Padram said. "And find an elf to take him home."

Lani slammed down her spoon, causing everyone to jump. "No, you will not! You will be killed!"

"I will take the boy with me," Padram said. "Really, dear, be reasonable."

"I cannot be reasonable where our lives are concerned. I do not know by what folly I agreed to let him stay all last night. To think at any moment, we could be discovered . . . Get rid of him, Padram, and I do not care how!"

The boy still looked hungry as he put down his bowl and watched Padram put on his cloak. Lani felt a flash of sympathy but the pot was empty. She looked up with the elf child as she heard horses' hooves and a horn echoed in the cold.

"Anouncing his Lordship, Lord Harune of Mirkwood!"

Lani started up, putting out a hand. "Girls, go to the bedroom and lock the door."

They went with reluctance, looking back as Lani grabbed Padram's arm as he opened the door, admitting a rush of cold.

A pale elf, muffled in furs untold of in the village, swept his hard eyes over the faces peeking from behind doors. "We tracked an elf to this village. If anyone has seen the child, King Oropher offers a reward for his safe return. There is only death if you have harmed him."

The elf child clambered from the sofa, darting under Padram's shoulder with outstretched arms. "Ada! Ada!"

Lord Harune dropped from his mount behind the herald to catch the boy and hug him. He wrapped his cloak around the elfling's shoulders, clasping tight the little hand as he glanced down the dilapidated street, its houses sad and weather-beaten, the people as ragged and worn as their dwellings. Somewhere, a baby was crying.

Harune spoke to the child, his lips forming reassuring phrases in elvish as the boy's frightened blue eyes turned to his, his voice shaking as he spoke. He squeezed the small hand as the boy nodded and stepped toward Lani. She glared as Harune approached her and Padram. His voice came rich and deep in human tongue this time. "You found Prince Thranduil?"

Lani covered her mouth with her hand. Padram glanced at the elfling before he nodded. "Yes. His fever faded by morning."

"You could have killed him."

"Anyone but us would have," Padram said quietly.

Harune's dark eyes regarded him. "I would give you the gold promised as the reward, but I fancy it would not be of use to you. I grant you the choice of the gold or meat enough to supply your village throughout the winter."

"I will have the meat," Padram said quickly.

Harune turned to his escort and spoke in elvish. The elves wheeled their mounts and rode for the bleak line of the forest border.

"I must return to the King," Harune said. "But the meat will be delivered, upon my word of honor. Thank you for sheltering my son."

Padram hesitated. "Of course. But does . . . 'ada' not mean father?"

"It does."

"If this is Prince Thranduil, how can you be his father?"

The elf paused; his eyes unchanged as he regarded the blonde head beside him. "I am the nanny King Oropher hired to look after his child. As I am the one who frequents the better part of the Prince's day, I am more of a father to him than the King can ever hope to be."

Thranduil spoke and Harune translated the gentle words. "He says thank you for your kindness and he is sorry King Oropher forces you to live like this. You do not deserve it."

Lani spoke, her face turning into a smile. Down the street, angry eyes were slowly turning to grudging acceptance. "Tell him he is welcome, and we will rejoice when he is King."

Thranduil smiled as Harune spoke to him. He detached himself from Harune's grip to offer a tentative hug to the woman. He waved as Harune lifted him onto his horse and mounted behind him.

Lani put an arm around Padram's shoulders as the horse made for Mirkwood's border, the trees naked in the grey cold. "I suppose I ought not doubt in the future even the smallest sliver of kindness has its warmth."

_**Enjoy a peek into the peril's of Thranduil's youth and the freeze of Oropher's rule? **_


	3. For Friendship

_**The twins returned home to sunshine under their roof but the rod lives on under many others. Following the ending events of Nin Chronicles: My Word.**_

"May I have a gold coin, ada?" Elladan asked.

His father looked at him over the desk. "Whatever for?"

"I know it is a lot of money," Elladan admitted. "But Elrohir and I wish to buy a present for a friend. We do not expect we will need the whole coin and shall return the change."

Elrond looked into his eyes before he reached into his pocket and slid the coin across the wood. "I place this gold as well as my trust in your hands. Now hurry else you will be late to school."

"Hannon le!" Elladan called, as he swept up the coin and dashed out the door.

Despite their best precautions, a sticky brown paper bag smelling sweetly and sourly of lemons could not be smuggled into Elrohir's desk without silent notice by several classmates. Rumor swiftly circulated the elflings possessed a generous quantity of lemon tarts, to be distributed among friends come recess.

"I told you this would happen!" Elrohir hissed. "We will never make these last to reach Elem, and ada will not give us another coin."

Elladan squirmed under the gaze of those who spurned him, refusing to look to the head of the room and meet the eyes of the man whose rule he had broken. "It cannot be helped. How else can we possibly give them to him if he will not tell us where he lives?"

"Aanix," Master Dagan called, "You look as if something is bothering you. Are you having difficulties with your lesson?"

Aanix's glittering eyes fell on the twins before he addressed the teacher. "It is hard to focus, is it not, when one's conscience is troubled by broken laws?"

"Have you knowledge you wish to share with the class?" Dagan inquired.

Elrohir cringed lower in his seat, furious Aanix would do this to him for standing up to him and his group of bullies. Pure hatred! And yet he clenched the desk in anger, knowing Aanix too had broken the rules multiple times over.

"Elrohir Elrondion has a package of lemon tarts in his desk," Aanix said. His voice carried.

Dagan's eye fell on the flushing elfling. "Is this true?"

As Elrohir struggled with a reply, seeing the brown paper bag even through the wood of his desk, Dagan flung the lid back and pounced upon the sugary package. The smell of sweet lemons perfumed the air.

"I do not care to see the rules of my classroom broken," Dagan said, taking Elrohir by the ear and leading him to the front of the room.

Elrohir heard Aanix snickering and tears filled his eyes. Cruel, that was what it was, and surely learned at home. He gulped as Dagan thrust the bag of lemon tarts into his hand. "You will take these and empty them out the window."

"No!' Elrohir protested. "They are for a friend. Please understand when I say—"

"You have disobeyed my word once. Do not do it again."

Elrohir's eyes pleaded. "If you would let me explain—"

"You explain only your refusal to obey!" Dagan roared. Elrohir jumped as the paper bag was snatched from his hand and slammed down on the teacher's desk. He bristled.

"I do not mean to, and I apologize for breaking the rules, but I have a fair reason. Perhaps if you were only nicer and did not favor pigs like Aanix and his consorts, I would have felt I could have come to you and explained! It is your fault you force people to sneak behind your back because you are such a hard-hearted rock!"

The gasp of the class rose in the air, falling into silence as Dagan's face grew red with budding anger. His voice made Elrohir step back in sudden fright. "How dare you speak to me with such tones, child? Lord's son or not, there are consequences for breaking the rules and my classroom, and I will enforce them! Hold out your hand!"

Elrohir started and Elladan jumped to his feet. Elrohir clenched his hands behind his back, drawing a further gasp from the class as he said resolutely, "No."

The pointer in Dagan's hand slammed down on the desk. "Elrohir."

"I will accept any punishment," Elrohir said. He raised his chin. "But I deny your right to hit me."

"Give me your hands."

Elrohir winced, shying back like an animal afraid. "No."

Dagan grabbed him by the shoulder and held him firm as he applied vigorous strokes of the pointer to Elrohir's behind. Before Elladan had even reached his side, Elrohir had twisted free and left his teeth marks in the elf's arm.

Blinking through the tears that now threatened to blind him, Elrohir retreated to Elladan's shadow, his hands held to his backside. Dagan's shadow loomed over him.

"You will not touch my brother again," Elladan spat. He shielded Elrohir as he made for the door.

"Run home," Dagan snapped. "Your father can deal with you better then I can."

The class sighed as Elladan slammed the door. In the cool air outside, Elrohir wiped his cheeks. "I did not want to remember what it felt like."

Elladan gripped his hand. "We will not go back."

"Ada will be so disappointed," Elrohir whimpered.

The twins had gone two steps when a dirty face peered out of the bushes. His dark eyes were hopeful.

"I am sorry, Elem," Elrohir said wearily. "We do not have them today."

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. "I would not have enjoyed them after what I heard. The schoolhouse walls are thin."

Elrohir sniffled. He left the elfling to gobble down his and Elladan's lunch and trudged up the path toward home. Celebrian met him and his brother in the family room door.

"We have not been sent home from school," Elladan said quickly, wincing as Elrond appeared behind his wife. "We—we left."

Elrond frowned. "You know that is wrong. I do not expect—"

"Do not be like him!" Elrohir cried. "Please do not be like him! I cannot bear it."

As the tears rolled down his cheeks, he slumped for Elrond's embrace. Nestled on the couch between mother and father, with Elladan hovering nearby, he quietly explained, ending on the tragic note of, "I do not want to go back."

"Why?" Celebrian asked. She smoothed his hair. "Why did you break the rules?"

"Elem," Elrohir said. "He—he has never had a lemon tart before, though we find him lingering outside the shop every morning. He will not tell us where he lives otherwise, we would have taken them to his house. He never brings lunch either. I do not think—he is happy—but we wanted to give him something nice . . . since his family cannot. I am sure they would like to."

The essence of the explanation hung in the air. After a long moment, Elrond sighed and hugged Elrohir into his chest.

"I tried to tell Dagan," Elrohir said in a small voice.

"But he would not listen, just as I would not listen, once upon a time," Elrond said. "What he did to you was wrong, and I am sorry he hurt you. You will not be sent back to a place where you are threatened. But I will have you know, proper communication to me and Dagan and you could have avoided—"

"I know," Elrohir said miserably. "I am sorry, ada."

"Then we shall speak of it no more," Elrond said. "Here, come, Elladan, sit with us. We all, I think, need a quiet moment."

_**Inspired by a true story from the pages of a novel set during the Civil War. Like it? Like it not? **_


	4. Star In The Night

**_Nightwing is the blessed creation of Erestor, secretary to Lord Elrond, and Ariel, head cook to his Lordship. _**

Nightwing's brow ceased as he heard sniffling. He rounded the schoolhouse and almost dropped his books as the sniffles turned to sobs.

"Miserable, dirty filth is what you are!" Daimon hissed, kicking the elfling at his feet. "Even orcs are born cleaner than you."

"Leave me alone," the child sobbed. "I have not done anything to you!"

"You do not deserve to live. I cannot understand why your skull was not caved in at birth."

"Leave him alone!" Nightwing snapped, grabbing Daimon by the back of his shirt. "You have as much right to bully him as you do me."

Being bigger and stronger, Daimon whirled and Nightwing staggered back, feeling the bruise form on his leg. He regained his balance before he fell.

The elfling on the ground wiped the dirt from his face and stumbled toward the schoolhouse, making it two steps before Daimon landed on his back. He shrieked and curled into a ball against the wall.

"You are wicked!" Nightwing yelled, as Daimon hurled away the shreds of the book he tore from the elfling's hand. He dropped his books and tackled the elf, a rock nipping his knee as he and Daimon rolled.

"Maybe your parents do not care an orc walks among us!" Daimon growled. "But I do. Be careful who you defend, fool! Where do you think a baby comes from with two men in the house? Witches!"

"Witches!" Nightwing exclaimed, grunting as his hair was jerked hard. "You are the fool, Daimon! He came from the same place as me. Have you never heard of adoption?"

"Boys!" Master Rax's voice deafened his ears as a hand on his collar pulled him away from Daimon. "I do not condone fighting."

"That may be," Nightwing said, gulping in a breath. "But I do not condone bullying."

Master Rax glared at him. "Out of you I have taken more cheek in all my years than from all my students! You will both return home immediately. If this happens again, I will break a switch across your backs."

Daimon snorted. He tucked his hands into his pockets and rounded the corner of the schoolhouse. Nightwing twisted out of Master Rax's grip and pushed his hair out of face. He tossed his head and knelt in front of the sniffling elfling gathering the remains of his torn book.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

The boy looked at him, rubbing the dirt and tears from his cheeks. "I am now. But you should have stayed away. Daimon will hurt you to."

"What is your name? I am Nightwing."

"Skorpion," said the elfling.

"I will walk you home," Nightwing volunteered. "Daimon could be lurking somewhere."

Skorpion hesitated. When he shook his head, Nightwing exclaimed, "Nonsense!", snatched his books, and marched down the hill with his new-found friend's wrist held tight in his. "Where do you live?"

The little cottage near the river was sheltered by several sloping hills. Skorpion limped to his front door and turned to thank Nightwing. As he spoke, the door flashed open and a man exclaimed, "Gracious valar, not again! Skorpion, Skorpion, what are we to do? Sohn! Run a bath."

His brow frowned at Nightwing. Skorpion said swiftly, "Nightwing helped me."

"Ah," said the elf, taking Skorpion by the arm and leading him inside. "Thank you, Nightwing, for your kind assistance. Good afternoon."

He shut the door firmly. Nightwing stared at the copper knocker before he hoisted his books and walked the white gravel path from the dale. At the rise of the hill he looked back. Smoke wound from the lonely chimney.

He deposited his books on the hall table as he reached home and wandered to his bedroom to wash his face and run a comb through his tangled hair. In a clean tunic, he drifted into the kitchen and found his father struggling with a colander of potatoes and a knife.

"How was your day?" Erestor inquired as Nightwing settled into a seat and watched him attack a potato's peel in a manner that exasperated Ariel.

"Better than yours, I am sure," Nightwing said, with a grin. "Do you know an elf called Sohn?"

"Indeed! He lives not far from here, near the river. I often meet him in the mornings."

"He?" said Nightwing. He thought of the elf who had opened the door. "Is he married?"

Ariel smiled. "Yes. His husband's name is Solvin."

Nightwing blinked. "I think . . . perhaps Skorpion was being bullied because he has two fathers."

Erestor put down the knife and reached for Nightwing's hand. "Did that bothered you?"

Nightwing looked at the fingers holding his hand in a warm embrace. Ariel's hands squeezed his shoulders. "Yes. I do not see why it matters; why it makes people hate. Daimon said—Daimon said Skorpion was made by witches. Is that true?"

Ariel said nothing for a moment and Nightwing heard only her quiet breathing. She said, "You may ask them. Erestor, my love, put away the potatoes. You will skin your hand before you peel anything decently. Fetch the pies from the larder and fill a basket with cookies."

"But we cannot call on them out of the blue!" Nightwing objected.

Ariel collected her cloak and pinned on Nightwing's. "We can indeed. The least we will be told is to leave. I know Sohn and, in light of today's happenings, feel a visit is in order. They can answer better then your father and I your questions."

And so Nightwing came to stand before the blue door for the second time. Ariel rapped sharply. It flew open and the elf's face creased into a smile.

"Oh, Nightwing, I am so glad you came back. I feared I was rather rude in my haste to make sure Skorpion was not hurt. The last time he was attacked, he broke a rib."

Nightwing winced. "Which one are you?"

"Solvin," said the elf. He gestured to the blond elf behind him. "This is Sohn."

Nightwing drew in a deep breath. "Are you married?"

"We are."

"Like ada and nana?"

"Exactly like your parents," Sohn confirmed, escorting the boy into the foyer. Ariel hung up her cloak on the hooks.

"Why?" Nightwing asked.

Solvin hesitated, looking to Erestor and Ariel for guidance but both elves seemed unconcerned with the questions of their offspring and Ariel only offered a nod. Sohn hung Nightwing's cloak. "Why? For the same reason as your parents. For love."

Nightwing's black eyes suddenly twinkled with stars and he smiled. "I was afraid—Daimon made it sound like black magic. I am so glad he was lying."

Solvin's eyebrows shot up. "I do not think he was lying, Nightwing. You cannot call it lying when the person in question does not even understand what he talks about. I expect he repeats only what he hears his parents say."

"That is true," Nightwing said slowly. "May I—may I see Skorpion?"

"Come into the family room. I expect you are the only one Skorpion will see. It is one of our greatest regrets that he is so constantly hurt by his classmates. It is easy to join for love but seeing him suffer for our choice is . . . " Solvin's words died and he shook his head.

The small room was round, flooded with light from the bay windows. Skorpion lay on a small sofa with a pillow under his head and his wet hair hanging over the arm. He took the book off his face. "Ada, I am tired of going back."

"I know, child, and we will not ask you to return again. You have been through enough for no fair reason. But perhaps this will brighten your day; here is Nightwing to see you."

Skorpion sat up and the book dropped to the pink carpet. His forced smile expanded until his green eyes shone. "I . . . did not think you would come see me. No one comes to my house."

"Except me," Nightwing said.

Solvin dropped into a chair. Ariel thrust her basket into Sohn's hand and spoke into his ear. The elf retreated into the kitchen and returned with a plate of cookies. He set it on the round table near the sofa and Skorpion immediately reached for one.

"You must forgive us for intruding," Ariel said, dropping into the bigger sofa near the hearth. Erestor slid his arm around her shoulders.

Solvin shook his head. "Say nothing of it. Your intrusion is the happiest of a long day."

"You are the first person who does not shun me," Skorpion said. "Why?"

"Why should I? After all, I am sure it is not true you were made by witches." Nightwing turned on Sohn. "Where _did_ Skorpion come from?"

The elf tilted his head. "Most mating is done between men and women, Nightwing, for it only women who can carry a baby. I never found a mate who suited me until I met Solvin, but we wanted a child and there are a good many of them abandoned and alone. We adopted Skorpion when he was little."

"I told Daimon," Nightwing said. "He did not believe me."

Sohn gripped Solvin's hand. "There are always people who hate those who are different. What matters to us is the people who do not hate. You are always welcome here."

"And I hope I am welcome in your house," Skorpion exclaimed. He wiped the crumbs from his cheeks. "Your mother makes magnificent cookies!"

_** . . . Conflicting morals . . . Interests . . . Views. But at the end of the day, it is a story. About life. That matters to me. What matters to you? **_

_**Thank you for reading! A bit of a touchy topic, I know, but I hope you will not throw me under the bus for exploring life's many alleys. Would love to hear whatever thoughts are jangling around your heads right now. **_


	5. Stallion

_**Past reference to Elem may be found in the third story of **_**My Kingdom****, ****For Friendship**_**.**_

Elrond rounded the corner and bumped into the elfling peering over the sill into Elladan and Elrohir's room. The boy heard nothing, not even his tunic rustle as he folded his arms.

"What, pray tell, are you doing?"

The elfling jumped and whirled around, bumping his elbows against the wall. His hands unclenched at his sides. Coarse hair and a dirty face stared up at Elrond.

"My lord," he bowed. "I was looking for Elladan and Elrohir—lords Elladan and Elrohir—um—their lordships?"

Elrond put out a hand, frowning as the elfling's blue eyes darkened with fear. "It is alright, child. It is clear you know my sons well and it is fine to call them by name."

"Yes, my lord."

"Now, tell me, what is your name?"

The elfling shifted. He looked down at his feet. "Elem, my lord."

"Ah!" said Elrond, taking in the neat patches on the boy's shirt. "I recall an instance with you and some lemon tarts."

The boy shivered. "Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean for them to be whipped."

Elrond raised his eyebrows. "It is not your fault Master Dagan was an unpleasant person. Come sit with me." He indicated the stone lines of a nearby bench.

Elem sat and slid against the carved back, gripping one arm. He looked at Elrond.

"It is much easier to knock on the front door and ask for the twins," Elrond said gently.

Horror flashed across the boy's thin face. "Oh no, my lord! Never."

"Why not?"

Elem squeezed his hands in his lap. "It is not right, my lord, not proper, for a servant's boy to come to the door of the mansion, to even be seen in it."

Elrond frowned. The elfling flinched. "I did not mean to displease you, my lord."

"Elem," Elrond said, "There is no need for you to bow and scrape like a slave. Straighten yourself up and address me as you would any other."

"But that is not right, is it, my lord?"

"It is!" Elrond snapped. "I am an elf, not a tyrant!"

Elem moved closer to the armrest. "Sorry."

Elrond bit his lip, seeing the fear seep back into the boy's limbs. "I ought not have snapped. I apologize." He touched Elem's shoulder.

"Ow," the elfling whispered.

Elrond sat up. His healer's instinct flared to life, fanned further as Elem snatched the cloth back to his shoulder when Elrond lifted it.

"Who did this to you?" Elrond demanded.

Elem jumped to his feet. "I do not know what you mean!"

Elrond snatched his skinny wrist to keep him from bolting. "Was it your parents, child?"

"No!" Elem shouted. "They would never!"

"Tell me who did." Elrond gripped him tighter as the elfling fought to flee.

"It was not my parents," Elem cried. "I swear it was not."

"I do not care if it was. I care _who _it was. There is a serious penalty for abusing a child and I know too well the marks of a belt—of a whip."

Elem rubbed the tears gathering in his eyes with a grubby fist. His struggles diminished to pathetic tugging.

"If it was your parents," Elrond said gently, "Then I understand you feel loyalty toward them. But love is no excuse for this."

"It was not them! Why will you not believe me?"

"Because you give me no other name or reason," Elrond answered.

The elfling's face was pale. "It—it was my uncle. I do not live with my parents anymore—not really."

"I see," said Elrond. He gave the child a moment before asking, "Why not?"

"My uncle makes me work in his stables. And I have to sleep in there, and I cannot go to the house, where my parents are. I have to obey him, or my sister will be hungry."

At Elrond's silence, Elem said quickly, "I did not mind working for him. I thought since he was nana's brother, he would be like her; kind. But he never helped—he made us work for him after the house burned down. And he made me hold the horse; it was too strong. And then he got angry."

"Is this the first time he beat you?"

"Yes. At least, the other times it was only with his hand. I-I came—I thought Elladan and Elrohir would give me some salve. I hurt so much!"

Elrond wrapped his arms around the elfling's shoulders as the tears slipped down his cheeks. "Come, let me rub some salve into your back. Then I will take you home. To your family."

"I cannot go to them," Elem sobbed. "I cannot tell them—I do not want my sister—"

"I," said Elrond, "Will make sure your sister has everything she needs. Are you afraid of your parents?"

"I never wanted to leave them," Elem choked. "But I had to. It was the only way—"

Elrond silenced him with another hug. When they stood, Elem wiped his nose on his sleeve. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment before he stepped onto the marble floors of Elrond's home. He lay quietly, stroking the soft covering of the sofa while Elrond banged doors looking for a tin.

The air nipped his skin when Elrond coaxed his shirt off, and the angry welts burned. The sudden hands on his back, well coated with oil, were warm and the massage warmed him blood. He drifted to sleep under the gentle firmness of it, roused only when Elrond shook him and handed him a shirt.

Elem squinted at it, felt the smoothness. "This is not mine."

"It is now," Elrond said.

Elem looked at the rich red in his hands. He slipped it over his head. Elrond held out a hand for him, shiny with oil. Elem took it, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he plunged out the door and down the hill. As he neared his uncle's estate, his heart began to pound.

It was a simple place, set against the curve of the hills. The horses raised their wide eyes to stare at him from behind the wooden rails blocking off their paddocks. No flies buzzed by the stables, but tired elves lingered, with shovels in hand.

It was not to the white front door of the long, wide house Elem led Elrond but rather he crept around to the back, where the dirty door led into the kitchens. A woman leaned over the pea trellises making the first row of a small garden, filling a round basket on her hip with the green pods besides peppers and eggplants.

"Nana!" Elem cried.

The woman whirled around, quickly setting down the basket. "Elem! We have been looking everywhere! When I heard what happened—what that filth did to you—" she said no more, only clutched Elem to her before she noticed Elrond.

"My lord!" she curtsied. "Forgive me, I did not see you."

"I knew your father," Elrond said. "Lord Wren supplied many a fine horse to my stables. What ruin has this place fallen into?"

"My father is dead, my lord. It is only right my brother should inherit."

"Indeed!" Elrond said. "But not if he treats you like animals, working you to the bone so you may eat."

"I left long before my father died," the woman said sadly. "Life was good. But when our house burned down, and we were left with nothing, we had no choice but to accept what little my brother—Lord Aelwyn offered us."

"This," said Elrond, "Is an unacceptable thing to offer. The horses we have received have been damaged; fleeting. I see now he not only beats horses but children as well."

The woman's hand tightened on Elem's. She said nothing, only pointed to a window when Elrond asked to speak to her brother.

Elrond found Lord Aelwyn in his study, sipping wine. The man cleaned the sugar from his fingers with a napkin and rose to receive him. "My Lord Elrond! You honor this humble abode with your presence. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"The marks of your whip on a small child's back," Elrond said grimly.

"Elem is a liar," Aelwyn laughed, yellow eyes not of a hunter but of a snake. "And, if he was whipped, I trust the man who did it had fair reason."

"There is no reason to hit a child."

Aelwyn flung out his hands. "Come now, my lord, do not pretend you have not done justice by your sons many a time!"

Elrond glared at him. "How dare you? It is true I have spanked my children but _that is over. _I know better now. And I will not tolerate this; this abuse that spanking becomes. You are finished here, Lord Aelwyn, finished abusing horses and that precious thing called family! The only family you will have is rats and the only realm you can lord over will be a lowly dungeon cell!"

The elf spluttered, "You forget yourself, my lord! I will not stand alone in this abuse of your powers."

"You and your equally ugly friends may have your say, of course, but I have had mine. And I think I am more read in my laws of old then you."

Elrond descended to the yellow light and heat of the kitchen to find it tended by thin bodies and haggard faces. He slammed the door in rage as he stepped out into the garden. Shameful! To have such tyranny—such cruelty occurring under his nose, in Rivendell, land of the healers! Blind. He had been blind.

His eyes softened as an elf wearing more dust then clothes dismounted from a horse. "Elem! Elsbethyl, what has happened?"

His wife told him, making room for his embrace of Elem and his sister, a girl of freckled face and green eyes, vibrant red hair laughing in the sun yet nevertheless rigid and bony as an arrow.

When he broke away, the elf bowed, "My lord Elrond, I am Stallyn, your humble servant. Forgive me for what I know you must be thinking."

Elrond studied the elf's hands, worn from clutching leather reins, before he shook his head. "No. I learned a lot in Mirkwood and yours are your father's hands; they are not the hands that hit children. I salute you, Lord Stallyn, and my stables look forward to horses raised under the sun and moon, as free as the wind. Companions, not slaves, to their riders."

He strode past the small family, eyes focused on the hilltop, where the white speck of his house stood, and the blue curved down to meet it.

**_Lord Elrond of Rivendell? He is chipping away at the stagnant pools of society. Thoughts, please?_**


	6. Inkwell

**_May be viewed as a prequel to Nin Chronicles: My Lord._**

**_Due to a reader who thought Legolas's 'father' here was Thranduil, it shall be noted the 'father' within this chapter is Lord Katar, Legolas's adoptive parent, whom Legolas flees from in favor of Thranduil. Legolas's journey to love and warmth within Thranduil's halls in Mirkwood may be read in Nin Chronicles: My Lord. _**

Legolas heard footsteps and curled tighter, pressing his cheek to the cold tiles. A whimper escaped him as a shadow fell over him.

"Sorry," he gasped when a hand touched his shoulder. He fought to sit up, but his legs cried out, his neck cried out, and his arm cried out the loudest.

"It is okay; it is me."

"Derek," Legolas whispered, his tears puddling with the water on the floor. "I—I cannot move. He will come back—he will hit me more. I do not want to live anymore! Let me die."

The hands helping him sit were not much bigger then his own. The tiles whirled even after he wiped his swollen eyes with his good arm. He shuddered at the sudden memories the ache in his body left and curled against the warmth behind him. He shut his eyes and slowly his choked tears died.

"You have to stand up," Derek said in his ear.

Legolas looked at the blood on the bathroom floor. He felt it trickling down his hurt arm. "I do not know—I think he only broke my arm."

His body protested, old bruises and new wounds screaming as he struggled to his feet and snatched Derek's arm to combat the great wave of nausea that rolled over him. that anyone could be more then skin and bones amazed him as Derek wrapped an arm, plump compared to his skeleton of his waist, around him and guided him out of the dim room where Lord Katar's shouts still echoed.

Legolas's eyes darted to the corners of the hall and leapt to doors as he walked until Derek assured him, "It is okay. He is at a meeting."

Still Legolas's shoulders stayed taunt with pain and frozen terror as he limped to Derek's room and slumped into a cushioned chair. The space was open and warm, lit by a fire. There were carpets and paintings and closet the size of his dungeon cell. The window looked out over the dirty houses below the castle but Legolas could not see them; all he saw was his swollen eye and bloodied lip, and that mottled bruises that made his skin until he looked away.

Derek stepped in front of him with a bowl of steaming water and a roll of bandages. He was twice Legolas's size, without a bruise on his face despite sharing a father, and his clothes fit him instead of being the rags that hung from Legolas's shoulders, where bones poked and jutted.

Legolas whimpered and Derek's cool hands clasped his wet cheeks. "He is not here, Legolas. Lord Katar is gone right now."

"But he will come back."

Derek's eyes slid to the floor. "Yes."

"Why does it have to be me?" Legolas choked. "I do not understand—do not understand why he hates me—hates me and barely hits you! I thought he wanted me—ow!"

Derek ducked his head, his cheeks reddening at the shame he felt hurting the battered elfling but knowing he had to as he bound the limp, broken arm and set it in a sling. Legolas rested his head on his knees and wept.

"He does not want me, Derek. No one wants me. I am going to die here alone. All alone . . ."

Derek uncurled Legolas's clenched hand and removed a crumpled paper. The writing told him it was a letter from Mirkwood, and no doubt the reason Legolas had been so brutally assaulted.

"He will come back," Legolas whispered, and the terror in his blue eyes curdled Derek's stomach.

Derek held up the letter and Legolas sniffled. "I do not understand why he always writes, always asking how I am if he gave me away. I know I should not have kept it but—but is the only glimpse into another world I have. If I wrote back instead of Lord Katar—told King Thranduil the truth—would he even care?"

Derek looked at the bleeding ink on the page. He swiftly crumped it into a ball in his palm as the door banged open. Legolas wrapped his skinny arm around his knees as he began to tremble.

"Get out," Lord Katar said.

Derek tried not to look at Legolas; tried not to show he cared. "Father, please—"

He winced as Lord Katar grabbed his wrist and jerked him to the door. Derek stumbled and fell. After the door slammed behind him, Legolas began to scream. Derek covered his ears, but the sound persisted and he cried silent tears for his brother. His fist clenched around the letter and suddenly he knew the hope it held; visions of a world away from the dark halls and the need to scurry into corners when footsteps approached.

Only when his father swept past him did Derek dare creep back into his room, gulping when he found Legolas sprawled by the wall, groaning. Before he could reach him, the elfling slowly stood, grunting with the effort. He took a step and another and stood rigid in Derek's hug. Horrible red marks were purpling on his arm again.

"Please help me to my room," Legolas said.

Derek sighed, thinking of the cold, dark dungeon room and the pile of rags that served Legolas as a bed.

"Yes," he agreed. Derek snatched a blanket off his bed.

The walk from his warm room to the bowels of the castle took time as Legolas limped down endless stairs he would have to climb up again before the sun even rose. Derek wrapped the blanket around the elfling when they reached the dark cell. Legolas clutched it to him with a whisper of thanks.

"Do not let him see," Derek said.

"I know. May I—please give me back the letter?"

Tears pricked Derek's eyes. Even after the beating he had endured for having it, Legolas still wanted the letter back. He pressed the grimy paper into his brother's bony hand. "Have you eaten?"

"No," Legolas said sadly. "Not since a few days ago."

Derek heard Legolas shuffle into his bed. He thought of him, curled among the discarded clothing, as he retreated toward the kitchens, wishing he could do more then steal food and blankets as he hurried back with a plate of hot meat and bread. He knew his father would turn on him in an instant if he knew.

"Goodnight," Derek whispered, leaving the plate of food beside Legolas. "I will get you out of here, I promise."

Legolas smiled but his eyes held no hope, and the light slowly faded after he licked his plate clean and huddled into nightmares of screaming and shadows. As it threatened to trap him, he awoke to Derek shaking him and instinctively curled, thinking Lord Katar had come to hit him.

Derek thrust an armful of wool into his face. "Quickly, before the horses are spotted, change. You are leaving for Mirkwood. You may not care if you live anymore but I—I do."

Legolas clutched at him. "No! You have to come with me. He will kill you when he finds out."

"I will come, I will, but hurry!"

The clothes were too big, but they were warm, and Legolas wrapped the cloak around him as Derek clutched his hand and jerked him along passages he had never dared tread. They crept out into the cold night toward two horses, saddled and bridled, and their saddlebags smelling of food.

Legolas clung to the animal as it followed Derek's horse. They clopped through the empty streets, past the gates where the change of guards left no one standing watch and fled into the open plains. Legolas squinted at the dark streak on the horizon and felt the letter ride up against his chest. Then the horses were running and all he could do was hold on.

For Derek, staying awake provided no challenge, as his blood run hot at the danger that could peek over the hills behind him. But he knew Legolas was drowsy and sick, and struggling to cling to the horse.

"Stay awake!" he leaned over and shook the elfling, biting his lip when Legolas cried out. As the cry faded, he heard the hooves behind him. Without looking back, he knew it was Lord Katar's men.

The tired horses stretched out again, but Derek saw the hope fading from Legolas's eyes. The dark light of terror was back, lit by the nightmare of being dragged back to a punishment worse then any in the past. And, as he looked at the tears trickling down Legolas's thin face and saw the urge in the elfling's hands to fling himself to the ground and hope he died, Derek knew what he had to do. He drew the horses to a halt. "You have to go on without me, Legolas."

"NO!"

"You have suffered more than all the people in Katarian combined," Derek said. "And I—I have been warm and fed and privileged while you have been beaten behind doors. I have lived, Legolas, but you have not. This is your chance at life. I will draw the huntsmen away."

"He will kill you," Legolas sobbed.

"Perhaps," Derek said. His heart ached, knowing his father had not succeeded in driving the love from Legolas's bleeding heart even after years of torture. "But you cannot go back, Legolas. You have to hold onto the letter and find a family; you have to know what love is before you die all alone. I cannot stand by and do nothing but steal and sneak anymore. I will not be my father."

"Derek!" Legolas reached for him.

Derek held him tight. "You have to go. You have to find King Thranduil; you have to find family; people who care. Promise me you will, Legolas, promise me you will fight for it. promise me, if anyone hurts you, you will keep looking until you find home. Promise me!"

Tears choked his voice. He barely heard Legolas's whisper over his own breathing.  
"I promise."

Derek draw back. "No matter what happens to me, I will hope King Thranduil is kind and that is was a mistake he gave you away, and he wants you back. I will pray you are home."

He slapped Legolas's horse and it jolted forward. "Goodbye!" he shouted.

"Do not go," Legolas cried. He could not bring himself to look back, but the haunt of Derek's screams followed him, and he knew his brother, with his kind eyes, would never see him again.

And then the cold hit him, and the snow fell, and the days blurred together until food ran out, and the horse stumbled on.

The sun rose but the green streak stayed far away, until the horse collapsed, and Legolas plod on alone, while the wind shredded his clothing and the ground his feet, but he was too frozen to care, and the only warmth was the paper against his chest.

And the paper blew away, and the light died, and Legolas touched the bark of a tree, glad he would die on the same soil of his birth.

The snow blanketed him, and he slept until, suddenly, it was warm, and his eyelashes were not stuck to his cheeks, and he opened his eyes to stare into a face almost his own, and he knew he had come home.

_**Grief and tears played their part and mixed therir way into my ink whilst writing this. That anyone should suffer so much is unimaginable yet I have imaged it . . . am I proud of being able to look into this dark realm? I do not know. Perhaps it is one of the curses of being a writer.**_

_**As for writing, it is time for me to admit I am out of short story ideas for this collection! But, since I still desire to write and you to read, I turn to you for ideas. What would you like to read next? Leave me some inspiring and hopefully heartwarming ideas in the comments and we shall see what comes of the next update!**_


	7. Lion Heart

**_Note: This version of the story may vary slightly from the original version, told by Harune in Chapter 48 of My Word, He Threw A Rock. _**

"No," his father said. "No!"

Harune twisted in his grip, whimpering. "You are hurting my arm. Nana! Make him stop."

"Perhaps you are being a little rough, Ceise," Samara said. "It will make no difference—"

"No," Ceise said, and his eyebrows flared above his dark eyes again. "We have not been rough enough. You know this has to be done; we discussed it."

"Now that I am seeing it, I do not know if I can watch!" Samara cried.

Ceise shook his head. "Then go. It is my responsibility."

"What is?" Harune asked. He tugged again. "What are you _doing_?"

Ceise glanced at his wife but she remained still, her hands curling at her sides. He glared back at his son and Harune flinched.

"We have told you many times fire is not to be played with. How many times have we told you this?"

"Many times, ada," Harune said.

"And yet we find you blatantly disobeying us! Fire is dangerous, child, even more so when you are foolish enough to burn it near cloth and wood."

"I did not think it dangerous," Harune whined. "I was careful; I kept it in the basin."

"Lighting a fire in your room is not being careful," Ceise scolded. "You did not think. You went behind our backs and you knew every step of the way it was wrong!"

"I am sorry! I will not do it again."

"Sometimes," Ceise said. "Being sorry is not enough."

"Ceise!" Samara objected. "That is not true. I do not want to teach this way."

"I am sorry," Harune insisted.

But Ceise still held him tight. "It is good you are sorry. Do you understand where you erred?"

"I lit a fire where it is not safe, and I did not listen to you and nana as I should."

"You could have burned down the house," Ceise said. "You could have injured us all."

Harune's eyes widened. "I am so glad you stopped me."

Ceise patted his back but Samara bit her lip. When Harune wiped the moisture from his eyes, Ceise gripped his shoulders. "I am glad you understand where you erred. But you have to remember."

"We love you, Harune, we love you so much." Samara squeezed his shoulders.

Harune's confused eyes turned to her but Ceise spoke. "Go outside, child, and bring me back a thin, short stick."

"What for?" Harune asked. "Will you show me how to make a fire?"

Samara's hands tightened on his shoulders and she sucked in a breath. Ceise said, "No, Harune, we are done with fire. The stick is to punish you for disobeying us."

Harune jerked away from his father. In the doorway he looked back. "Does that mean . . . you will hit me with it?"

Ceise's face twisted and Samara grabbed his arm. Neither elf looked at Harune as Ceise answered, "Yes."

Harune slammed the door and wandered across the yard, past the garden toward the forest line, blinking once, twice, thrice to clear his vision. He touched a limber branch and moved to snap it off the trunk but the image that rose to mind stopped him.

The forest was not meant to hurt people. Trees did not give up their branches to aid pain! Ada and nana were not meant to hurt _him_. Why? Why? Why?

A tiny voice told him he had been wrong. The same tiny voice that rebelled when the first hints of smoke met his nostrils in the corner of his bedroom. But another voice made him weep; told him ada was wrong.

Harune hunched at the base of an oak and rested his chin on his knees, focusing on the tiny carpet of moss at his feet to keep back the inevitable thought of red welts. He knew the sting of a branch when he had run too quickly past one and it had snapped back to smack him, but would it hurt more when ada was the one holding it?

His chest heaved and a small sob escaped him. His fingers encountered a large rock and he clutched it. Ada was going to hurt him. Did it matter what with?

"You have been a long time," Ceise said, when Harune peeked through the front door. "Give me the switch."

"I do not have one," Harune stammered. "But here is a rock—"

"Harune, if you cannot even follow a simple order, I am more ashamed of you then before."

"Ada!" Harune wailed, but Ceise guided him outside and snapped a branch off the yew tree growing at the edge of the little yard.

Samara covered her mouth in the doorway.

"No," Harune pleaded, struggling to slip his wrist out of Ceise's grasp as the switch went up. "Please do not! Please do not! Please!"

"My father made me bend over the table," Ceise said. "Hold still, Harune! It will make this easier."

Samara left the doorway, her feet touching the cobblestone path and her hand outstretched. Harune cried as the switch whined through the air.

"He will never trust us again!" Samara cried. "Stop!"

Harune stumbled and sat down hard as Ceise released him. He scrambled away as he saw the shadow of the switch rise, and shuddered as he heard it snap, but no pain spread up his legs and he dared to look back.

Ceise flung away the broken pieces of the stick and approached him. Harune crawled away. "Nana! Do not let him hurt me." He did not have to look back to see the tears well in his father's eyes.

Samara dropped down beside him and squeezed him into a hug. Harune held onto her, afraid to look back at the stranger Ceise had become. A hand touched his hair; brushed it back from his ear but Harune stiffened instead of relaxing.

"I am sorry," Ceise whispered. "I swore I would not treat you like my father treated me. Oh, Harune! I would not have done it."

"You should have done it," a new voice said.

Harune looked over Samara's shoulder to see their neighbor standing at the edge of their yard, his daughter beside him. The elf pointed a finger. "Look at you, sitting in the mud with a child who deserves well his punishment! You are weak, Ceise."

"Maybe I am," Ceise said. "But I do not want my son to hide from me."

The elf snorted and walked on. Before he reached the curve in the path, he looked back, "It is easier every time."

Harune shuddered. He raised his hot cheeks from Samara's breast and met his father's eyes. Ceise dared to touch him and, when he did not protest, folded him into an embrace, holding him tighter when Harune's arms slipped around his neck.

"I believe you," Harune whispered. "You did not do it. You did not hit me."

"I love you," Ceise choked.

Samara kept a hand on Harune's back, but her fingers laced into Ceise's hand. She said, "You may think yourself weak but today you proved to be one of the strongest men I know."

Ceise kissed her cheek. He looked down at Harune nestled in his lap. "Come, if I may, I think it is time I taught you how to _safely _create and use a fire."

Harune's eyes darted up. "You mean it?"

"Yes," Ceise said. "What better way to keep you safe then to teach you responsibility? I should never have threatened punishment. Now, while Samara cuts the meat for our dinner, we will collect kindling."

Harune squeezed his hand. "I am glad you are back, ada."

Ceise kissed the top of his head. "Me to."

_**Inspired by a true story, told by the esteemed author of Pippi Longstocking.**_

_**We have our tree up! It the smallest, roundest, most perfect tree to shine under this roof, and the silver, gold, and white have mingled well. Are you proud of your tree this year? **_

_**I love hearing from you; like it? Like it not? **_


	8. Bridges

_**Note: Daimon and Skorpion first appear in the the fourth story of **_**My Kingdom, Star In The Night**_**.**_

_**It shall also be noted Nightwing is the child of Erestor and Ariel. **_

Nightwing felt the swelling around his eye as he staggered home, catching a dismayed look at himself in a puddle. He stepped into the quiet hall, kicked off his muddy boots, and padded into the family room.

Erestor rose in a flash, dropping the paper from his lap, and his exclamation brought Ariel from the kitchen. Nightwing looked away under their scrutinization of his torn clothes and muddy hair. And the bruises . . . he winced.

Ariel brought a damp cloth and made him sit, scrubbing his face clean with a gentle hand. She asked no explanation but Nightwing volunteered one, "Daimon assaulted me for being a suck-up. And Skorpion's friend. And an embodiment of everything he hates."

Ariel kissed his forehead. "Change your clothes and join us for dinner."

He winced a little as he stood, feeling his bruised ribs with each step to his room. He exchanged his dirty tunic for a clean one, ran a comb through his hair, and skipped to the table.

"Should we report this to Master Rax?" Ariel asked, filling his plate with ham.

"I do not want to be hurt again." Nightwing fiddled with his green beans. "But I . . . do not think Master Rax will do much. Only whip Daimon and send him home, where his father will whip him again. He will come back angrier."

"I understand, but we do not wish to see you hurt. Sometimes we have to think of our family."

Nightwing squirmed. "I know."

"Do you wish us to consult Daimon's parents instead?" Erestor asked. "We must say something."

"I want to try talking to Daimon first," Nightwing said softly. "May I have a box of cookies?"

"You may. But, Nightwing, if you return with more bruises, the matter and the handling of it is in our hands," Ariel said.

When Nightwing nodded, Ariel rose. "You will find a box of cookies in the pantry. Stay safe."

Nightwing hugged her goodbye and held the door as she slung an apron over her arm, kissed Erestor goodbye, and set off in the direction of Elrond's white house. He helped his father clear the table before he tucked a box of cookies under his arm and walked down the hill toward Daimon's home.

He hesitated at the door before he circled the dwelling and entered the dell created by the curve of the hill between the house and slope. He stopped in the shadow of the eves and looked at Daimon, sitting sullen on a stone bench.

"Hello," Nightwing said.

The boy looked up at him and hate crossed his face. He bunched his hands into fists. "How dare you come here?"

Nightwing held his ground as the taller elf approached. "I am sorry you are hurting inside. But I do not understand why you hurt others if you hate it so much. I—"

Daimon hit him, dark eyes simmering darker, and Nightwing stumbled back, clutching the cookies. He pressed a hand to his cheek and looked up at Daimon.

"I will not hit you back," he said. "But I will be your friend. These cookies are from me and my family, as a gesture of peace."

He put down the box, wary of a kick, and swiftly walked away. Only when he stood at the high rise of the dell did he dare look back.

Daimon sat with the box open beside him, his jaw working over the crumbs. His dark eyes met Nightwing and slowly he allowed himself a smile, rusty at the edges and shyer then his fist had ever been.

Nightwing waved and skipped home. Erestor met him at the door with a frown, his sternness fading as Nightwing explained his new bruise and allowed his father to rub salve into it.

The next day at school Nightwing boldly approached Daimon, where he lurked with his group of friends. As one of them stuck out a foot to trip him, and Nightwing swerved, Daimon stepped in front of him.

"Leave him alone!" he snapped.

The elf recoiled. "Whoa, Daimon, think about whose side you are on! Ours, or this pale stick's?"

"We are done here," Daimon retorted. He reached for Nightwing's hand and hesitated.

Nightwing smiled. "Friends hold hands."

Daimon's fingers laced with his and the elflings walked for the schoolhouse. Master Rax greeted them in the entrance. "I am glad to see you boys have overcome your differences."

Daimon jerked his hand away as Nightwing stopped beside Skorpion's desk. "I will not talk to him."'

Skorpion's green eyes jerked up in surprise and he scowled, slamming his desk lid. "I will not talk to him either! Nightwing, what are you doing?"

"Do not let me hear you slam that lid again," Master Rax scolded.

Nightwing spread his hands. "We can all be friends. Daimon, I do not understand why you hate Skorpion. If anyone has a right to hate, it is Skorpion. You hurt him but did he ever do anything to you?"

Daimon pointed a finger. "My father says he is a sin!"

"I am not a sin!" Skorpion snapped. "My father's love me."

"Yes," Daimon said. He folded his arms. "That is why you are sin. Men have no business loving each other."

"Sohn's family rejected him when he shared his love for Solvin with them," Skorpion said softly. "I am sorry if your family would do the same."

"Disgusting," Daimon said, and tossed his head. "Nightwing, I cannot be friends with you if you are friends with him."

Nightwing scowled. "My friendship does not have conditions, Daimon. I am friends with both of you. No one said you have to be friends with each other. But I think it is shallow of you to—"

"Nightwing Erestorion, sit down!" Master Rax snapped. "The bell sounded two minutes ago."

Nightwing slid behind his desk, resting his chin on his hands. He felt Skorpion's eyes on his neck and Daimon's on the side of his head and sighed.

The day slipped by until the final bell rang. Skorpion was gone by the time Nightwing turned around but Daimon lingered by the door. Nightwing stepped to join him but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"You will spend a few minutes with me," Master Rax said. "We have some things to discuss about your attitude."

"But—"

"No buts," the elf said. "This is a prime example of your behavior, Nightwing. Are you deaf?"

"I do not like your teaching attitude!" Nightwing said. "You are all bitter."

Daimon passed him by and hissed, "My father would spank me for talking back like that."

He walked out into the cool spring air, hearing Master Rax beginning to scold. He paused on the pathway winding away from the building as he heard a scream. A moment later he recognized Asil's delighted laughter.

Daimon rounded the pathway as it wound down the hill and discovered Skorpion curled into a ball. His papers were scattered and torn and his arms over his face as Asil kicked, encouraged by the youths behind him.

"Come to join us?" Asil asked. "It is about time you decided who your friends are and—"

Daimon knocked into him and the elflings tumbled down the hill. A rock nipped Daimon's back and tore his shirt.

"I am done with you!" Daimon snarled. "I have enough hurt in my life, without you adding more ugliness to it. Never speak to me again. And if you hurt my friends again, I will fight you! I always win."

Asil scrambled away from him and spat, "Now that sinned orc child is your friend to?"

Daimon straightened his back. "Maybe he is."

Asil glared at him. His eyes dropped and he slunk over the high rise of the hill, with the shadows of his companions behind him. Daimon turned and climbed back to the pathway. He found Skorpion wiping his eyes and gathering his papers.

Daimon wiped the dirt off one page and held it out to Skorpion. "Master Rax does not like dirty homework."

Skorpion looked up at him and cringed. When Daimon kept holding out the page, he hesitantly took it. "Hannon le. Why—why did you help me?"

"I am sick of being hurt. Maybe I hated you—and Nightwing—because you have everything I do not. I never really feel—my parents care for me like yours do."

Skorpion dragged the hair off his eyes. "I am sorry."

Daimon shrugged. "Do not be. I hate pity. Do you think Nightwing's mouth has earned him a whipping?"

Skorpion slid his loose pages between the covers of his book before he looked up. "Daimon . . . Our parents do not hit us."

Daimon blinked. Nightwing skidded to a halt beside him, his cheeks flushed. He gasped out, "Are you okay?"

Daimon and Skorpion transferred their eyes to Nightwing. Skorpion smiled. "Yes. We are fine."

"Are you?" Daimon asked.

Nightwing grinned. "Of course. Master Rax may bark at times but I do not let him bite me. Come to my house for cookies?"

Daimon and Skorpion looked at each other. Both elflings nodded.

_**A tale of friendship to begin 2020 on! We may not agree on all grounds but friendship bridges differences. **_

_**Thank you all for being part of this glorious year in my life, and for coming with me into the year ahead! **__**Make good resolutions for the year to come. My resolution is to never let the stories inside me die.**_

_**AshNazg: I love your comments! They are always so full of joy. **_

_**Dream Plane: You are correct; For Friendship was inspired by a chapter within Little Women! Thanks for sharing your thoughts.**_

_**ChenangoJones: You have already stated you will not be back for more of my writing, which saddens me since there is a misunderstanding between us about the context of what you read. I would never, never portray Thranduil as abusive to Legolas, as I love both the elf King and his son, and despise violence of any kind against children. My portrayal of Thranduil is one of love and freedom. The 'father' Legolas refers to in **_**Chapter Six _of_ My Kingdom: Inkwell**_**, is Lord Katar, Legolas's adoptive father whom he runs from to Thranduil. **_

_**Thank you all for reading; I love your thoughts and insights and suggestions for tales ahead. **_


	9. Herald

_**Another tale from the resplendent youth of our beloved, King Thranduil.**_

The mud sloshed around his boots as he alighted from the carriage. The heavy folds of his red cloak barely touched the ground as he stepped onto the hard cobblestones, hints of frost caught in the cracks.

Thranduil sighed, his breath misting in the touch of cold left in the spring air. He turned his head, taking a step to see the stalwart houses behind him. They were old and worn yet doing what they knew; standing tall for centuries. Often the square bustled with the markets but today it stood almost empty, only a few scrapes of cloth and wood on the ground marking the places where stalls usually stood. And all around the stone square, the houses stood, marking boundaries.

"Announcing his majesty!" the herald cried. "Crown Prince Thranduil of Mirkwood!"

The people in the square halted to look at him. Women pushed hair from their faces and men set down their axes. Elflings paused their play to regard him but there was no joy in their faces; only envy and hate showed, mixed with quiet indifference.

Thranduil flushed and pressed his lips tight. He saw the mended cloaks and tired hands. He saw the hungry elflings and parents with tears behind their eyes. And he shared their hate for himself as he crossed the cold ground.

The herald knocked on the door of a quiet house set back from the street, its glass windows looking out into the square. The door opened and the elf behind it bowed.

"My lord Thranduil," he said. "I am Rill, your humble servant."

Thranduil walked into the bare room. It was small and heated by a pot-bellied stove, while a carpet kept the floor warm. A sofa sheathed in wool, several chairs, and a square table close to the blaze finished the furnishings.

The herald stood near the door into the street, opposite one of two doors in the wall.

Rill said, "My lord, it has been my honor to hold and carve the longbow marking the blessed occasion of the spring equinox and your birthday."

He gestured to the weapon lying on the table. Tiny leaves decorated the trunk of the bow, spun into spirals and forest faces. The smooth wood slid, waxed, in Thranduil's hand, smelling of honey and bees—summer.

"It is not for me," Thranduil said.

Rill started. "I beg pardon, my lord?"

"I do not care for it," Thranduil answered. He looked into the elf's pained eyes. "You did not carve it for me. Did you?"

Rill's dark eyes refused to meet his.

"It would lie idle," Thranduil said. "Its beauty would be wasted. Who did you carve it for?"

"My daughter," Rill whispered. "But when King Oropher laid eyes on it, he insisted its beauty was meant for you alone."

"Give it to your daughter," Thranduil said.

"This is highly improper!" the herald objected.

"You stay out of this," Thranduil exclaimed. "Perhaps you can walk in the square and feel nothing but I—I cannot!"

"Respectfully, my lord," Rill said. "I cannot give the bow to my daughter. It belongs to you."

"I return it to you," Thranduil said. "Keep what you were paid as well."

"I cannot," Rill said. He bowed. "My lord."

"Stop calling me that!" Thranduil shouted. "I am sick of it! Do you think I wish to represent this tyranny?"

"My lord!" cried the herald.

Thranduil turned on him. "You be quiet! It is true. I will not walk in the streets and be an idol of greed and privilege, for that is what I am when people are hungry and cold, and King Oropher does not care. When he does nothing, I am perceived as the hated Prince who will grow up in comfort because of his _blood_. They want to kill me, and King Oropher, and I do not blame them. I wish to kill myself to."

"You ought not say such things, my lord," Rill said quietly.

"I see it in your eyes!" Thranduil cried. He clenched his hands. "I hear it in your voices. What am I but an insurance to carry on the suffering of Oropher's reign?"

"My lord, please," Rill pleaded. "This behavior benefits a child, not a Prince."

"What will you do; paddle me?"

"My lord!" Rill objected.

"Why not?" Thranduil snapped bitterly. "Because I am in the Prince? I may be royalty, but I am still a child."

"It is not right to hit people," Rill said. "My lord."

Thranduil wiped a hand across his face to dry the tears. "You must keep the bow. What happens next is between King Oropher and I."

"I cannot refuse the order I was given, my lord. I was instructed to deliver your gift."

Thranduil's face cleared. "And so you shall. Take what you were paid for the bow and throw a feast for the people of the square."

Rill hesitated and Thranduil said quickly, "Unless, of course, you really need the gold?"

When Rill hesitated further, Thranduil slammed a hand onto the table. "If King Oropher dared treat you like some kind of slave, I will kill him."

"One always needs money," Rill said. "But, in truth, the bow cost me nothing but time otherwise spent in idleness. I am lucky enough to be better off then most and, I assure you, I negotiated a fair price from the King."

"Then you will do as I ask?"

"With the greatest of pleasure, my lord," Rill answered.

Thranduil's eyes lost their tears and Rill's began to sparkle. Thranduil said, "Thank you; this will be one of the greatest birthday gifts I have ever received."

He came up to Rill's chest when he hugged him, stepping back to bow. The brisk air slapped him as he emerged into the square, the herald marching in his wake. The cold eyes of an elfling stopped Thranduil.

The girl hunched with her back to a crate filled with dead flowers, the smaller presence of her sister beside her, but the wind played tricks, sweeping around the meager wooden shelter to tease her red hands and nose.

Thranduil unpinned his cloak and spread the rich red folds over her, watching the smoldering eyes slowly soften as the girl clutched the cloak to her.

Thranduil turned to the herald. "Give me your cloak."

"My lord!" the elf protested.

"Do not pretend you do not have a dozen finer ones at home," Thranduil retorted. He held out a demanding hand.

The elf stood stiff. "Respectfully, my lord, urchins are not worth your time."

"Perhaps not your time," Thranduil said softly. "But they are worth mine. Your cloak, please."

The elf's lips pinched, and he grimaced as if he sucked a lemon but he relinquished his cloak. He half-reached for it as Thranduil handed it to the second girl. With a yell and a shriek, the sisters were scrambling out of the square, the rich colors flying from their shoulders in the wind.

Thranduil looked back as he ascended to his seat in the waiting carriage. Rill was standing at his window, waving to him. It was a gesture of peace. It was a gesture of change.

_I am the Prince,_ Thranduil thought.

As the carriage rolled away, he smiled.

_**Truth be told, I found myself in a sad way yesterday! Having been sick a week, I had no time to prepare a story for My Kingdom. I amazed myself writing this in a day! Forgive my absence in the wake of my sickness and please enjoy.**_

_**ChenangoJones: You have already stated you will not be back for more of my writing, which saddens me since there is a misunderstanding between us about the context of what you read. I would never, never portray Thranduil as abusive to Legolas, as I love both the elf King and his son, and despise violence of any kind against children. My portrayal of Thranduil is one of love and freedom. The 'father' Legolas refers to in **_**Chapter Six _of_ My Kingdom: Inkwell**_**, is Lord Katar, Legolas's adoptive father whom he runs from to Thranduil.**_

_**Thank you all for reading; I love your thoughts and insights and suggestions for tales ahead.**_


End file.
